Tara, Katie and I closed down the restaurant, and since Tara and I weren’t going home to anyone we decided to go to a bar. Unfortunately, we spent a good 30 minutes of our drinking time trying to find a bar that wasn’t full of Los Feliz losers. I love my old neighborhood, but man is it filled with douchebags. We finally ended up at the Roost, a table magically opened up, and we were left alone until just before last call when the drunk former frat boys now hipsters tried to get us to go to the Griffin, where we had already been.

It never fails to amaze me how someone asking for your number in a bar, based solely on the way you look, having spoken only one curt word to them before the moment they pounce, still flatters. Instead of giving him my number I took his, then he gave me a sloppy wet kiss on my cheek. And the magic was over. Tara fared only slightly better by being asked if she was a hairdresser. Snort. She’s going to hate that I’m writing this, but man if you want to piss Tara off, ask her if she’s a hairdresser, or even better, a waitress. She’s feisty. Which is why I like her. I like going to bars with her because you never know when she’s going to completely lose it and get into a bar fight with a dude who told her she was pretty.

I’m thoroughly enjoying this new phase of my life. There are stumbles and some boring nights alone, but it’s nothing if not amusing to be single and in your thirties. Excuse me, 27.